“Music is the shortcut to the heart,” says Mr Bell. Thus, we should listen to something that lights our fuse, music of any style, then close our eyes and let our imagination run. Once we settle on something worth writing about, listen to the music to get you in the mood.
Nice! I love writing to music. So I will pick an album I used to listen to a lot, by Infected Mushrooms, Vicious Delicious. Listen until something coagulates, and then I write what I saw. (Wooh! Jung would be proud.) You do this too, ok, or else I’ll feel awkward doing it alone 🙂 :O ;P :l :/ :] : { >.< 😀 (: It’ll definitely be random.
. . .
A dancer trips off the fire alarm. The sprinklers overhead douse us in factory water. Light fixtures burst, meanwhile, as fuses blow. Confusing as this is, mixed with the projector effects, the crowd jeers. Even though everything could fall at any moment, until it does the show must go on.
The beat picks up, then twists from trance to bend to hip hop. A rapper steps onstage, hoodie dripping wet, dyed dreads down to his shoulders, setting the tone, while two DJs put on their sunglasses indoors. Flamethrowers blast, fireworks go off. And in the new light I see my friends diving forward into a mosh pit. Disappearing like socks in a washing machine.
But I stay, dancing like I like to do, being your favorite tee never washed. Then a glow stick hits my ear. Another is launched, but this time I duck, hide in the immediate crowd, bobbing to the groove, drooling from the mouth. I’m here to cure the pain of yesterday. Release the rage and sin locked within. Smoke blown from all around, I inhale, and turn to see where it smells the most pungent. What are the chances, yo. Gorgeous girl with skin like rainbows, in the neon light?
There is always some a gal like this, dancing alone, somewhere near by at a rave. She your everyday dream rave girl. She’s mine, I think, until a bald lanky guy steps up behind her, grabs her pudgy tummy, and asks her a question. In response she turns around and slugs the guy. After that, she jolts past the mosh pit. The whole thing reminds me I have a bag of shrooms. When I pull it out, the dusty slices start to shape shift. Between my thumb and finger they squiggle. Until the lanky bald guy is in my face, asking for a pinch.
I stuff my face, first, then hand him the rest. He says, “Thank you,” in slow motion. Then smells the stuff. But that’s it. Bikini bottoms land on him, while I walk away.
My friends, I wonder, but that rave girl must be out there somewhere, so I go find her. Mandalas spin and glow fingers twirl. Pounding pudding pulses like puddles to a dinosaur. Dumb not numb, I swim through spliced synths and ear splitting snares too. A hundred people to my left. A hundred to my right. Morning light cutting through the cracks in the cement ceiling, causing organic light effects through the sprinklers, hurting eyes, but shining gold and silver too. Where’d she go. There she is.
Front part of her jostling, hands to the security rail, front row. Then zoom out. I’m far away. Behind me a guitarist leads a Thriller dance. A sax man runs shirtless across. The sprinklers run out of water before we do. Shirts are cannoned from the stage. Confetti petals the air above us as helium balloons pop. I sprint, dance, shimmy my way forward, careen, bump around into a denser and denser space. Heart rate out of sync. Acid reflux like beer and vinegar at the top of my stomach. A headache. Some blackout.
Until sweaty skin and BO like a mo-fo wakes me. I am only a hop and a dip, a skip and a skinny away from my rave girl. But there are too many people to reach the front row, meanwhile my chest hurts, whereas she is stretching her wings and fist bumping her knuckles.
Girl on girl making out to my left. Guy on guy making out to my right. Tears on everyone. Tears falling too. Someone’s favorite song playing loudly. And the hooded dready genie on stage calling go-go dancers to the stage. She reaches up. The security guards won’t pick her just yet. This buys me time.
I’m almost there. At arm’s length to her wings, when the lanky wanker squeezes my shoulder. I know it is him, even before his bald head glows in my face.
“What?!”
“Don’t do it”, he warns, full of experience, full of poop in his mouth, smelling like it too.
“Floss the corn from your teeth, boy, later”, I shove him with a palm to his the glistening solar plexus, turn around and see my rave girl being picked up from the rail, lifted onto the stage.
From where I stand, hands to the cold wet rail, all I can see are her red kicks stomping on stage at eye-level. At my hands ghostly spirits drop their jaws, lick my ankles like underworld pups, and keep me from jumping up. A light fixture, already in flames, snaps and cracks and drops. It falls on my head. The show goes on.
The crowd cheers. A vermilion sun shakes its head from the outside. I look up, no one picks up the fixture, only a stage upside-down I see. As my breathing stops. Stopped up with smoke machine smoke. Fire and fireworks. Unconscious. Never again. Never. Red kicks on my face, dancing over me. Buried, pass. Thanks, try again next time. Two quarters are placed over my eyes. May they bring me through the next time.
